Game of Thrones: Tournament of the Land
by BraveZero
Summary: The Tournament of the Land is to be the greatest tournament of all time, hosted by a mysterious person known by his followers as the 'Mighty One.' Now twenty-four beloved and hated Game of Thrones characters are forced to battle to the death. Some more willing than others, who will survive the tournament of death? (Spoilers) (GORY & Cussing) (Vote on my profile to pick which battle
1. Intro

"Have they all been accounted for, General Oliver?"

"Yes, Mighty One. All twenty-four contestants have arrived, or been captured and contained. Those willing are more prepared of course, those who came unwilling to the summoning have brought less proper equipment and provisions. Only a few resisted the summoning, obviously they didn't believe it legitimate." The burly general watched as his master ate carefully, as if every morsel could be a detriment to his health.

"Excellent. All twenty-four fighters . . . Do read the list." The general furrowed his brows, the lines of his face deepening. His eyes darted to his sword belt where the parchment hugged his waist.

"But sir," he started to protest, until seeing his master's annoyance. Immediately the general simpered away with what dignity he had left, producing the parchment in gloved hands. He unrolled it dutifully, clearing his throat. "Ready, Mighty One?"

"Yes you fool, now READ!" The general shook in his armor, his eyes dropping to the ink on parchment.

"Tournament of the Land, featuring the following contestants: The Wolf, The Lion, The Strong Stag, The Kraken, The Red Viper, The Knight of Flowers, The Black Fish, The Mountain, The Hound, The Khal, The Wilding King, The Lord of Bones, The Night's Watch Master-of-Arms, The Night's Watch Lord Commander, The Young Wolf, The Maid of Tarth, The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, The Sellsword, The Unsullied, The Yunkish Champion, The Vale's Knight, The Senior Stag, The Onion Knight, and Reek the Weak . . . Does that please you, Mighty One?" His master's sick twisted smile returns. Steak juice resembling blood tremors from dark lips, as he drinks from his chalice vigorously. General Oliver patiently awaits the response, daring not to speak more than required.

"Excellent. Twenty-four contestants . . . Doesn't that just make you giddy, General?" His loyal subject nods, praying not to displease his master by not speaking. "Ah, so we are prepared to start on the morrow?"

"Yes, Mighty One."

"Excellent . . . You are to prepare for tomorrow on that note, understood?" The general nods, his heart leaping with joy to be leaving the Mighty One's chambers. The master's bed slaves never get to leave . . . "Excellent, then you are dismissed, General." General Oliver bows gratefully, his boot clanking for the door. "General, wait!" Oliver freezes in alarm, his heartbeat stopping.

"_Read me the list . . . One last time." _


	2. The Khal Vs Reek the Weak

The sun shone so brightly on this day, that the white sand glowed a golden-brown. For once the arena's pit matched the color of its seating, in such a way the cruel place was beautiful. The rafters of Westeros flapped in the wind at the arena's highest points, accompanied by the Mighty One's red-black sigil. It was a sinister red devil on a field of black, similar to that of House Targaryen but without the dragons of course.

For the first time in centuries, the ancient arena was packed full. Patrons, gamblers, merchants, drunks, homeless, lords, ladies, and knights had gathered from around the world to watch the extraordinary tournament. When not fighting, sometimes the willing contestants, (referring to those who came under their own power), would also sit in the stands. On this morning of the tourney's first spectacular day, only two contestants found themselves seated to enjoy the firth death match. Both of which were content, their eyes and ears more alert than ever. Suddenly the arena's north gate screeched open, century-old iron creaking its way back up into the stone curtain.

From the gate emerged two men, each dressed the same in gleaming black armor. Their blood-red helms were shaped to resemble the face of a devil, each with a twisted smile and black eye holes. In their arms they carried tridents, with coal-black shafts and shiny three-pronged blades. To look upon them was fearsome, but not near as fearsome as the fact that there was a legion of them. That knowledge alone frightened any man from resisting the will of the Mighty One.

If even possible, an even more terrifying man followed the devil soldiers, or death mongers as some called them. He towered over both death mongers by at least five inches, his copper skin and muscles rippling under the sun. His almond-shaped eyes were shadowed by dark war paint, his pointed beard thick and black. Atop his head was the longest black hair one had ever seen, most of it tied into the coarse braid draping the length of his back. What confused the crowd however, was his lack of armor or even shirt for that matter. The intimidating warrior was bare-chested, the tan horse-skin leggings, shoes and gold-leather belt being his only clothing. His weapons are what gave him away to anyone who was uncertain. Two _arakhs_ hung from his hips, both curved swords bouncing as the Khal drank in the crowds' cheers with raised arms. The death mongers took their leave back through the gate as the Khal paced wildly, his mouth spitting the tongue of Dothraki. He didn't stand in one place until the gate slammed shut, the crowd noise dying down to that of a cricket.

The Dothraki drew both swords and sat down cross-legged, sticking the swords on either side of him as he watched the south gate. His gaze was not to be broken despite his Moon-of-his-life's stare, her silvery blonde hair messy from the heat. Sitting beside her was her old bear, the two hidden amongst the arena's highest seating, nearly sixty feet above the pit. The dizzying height actually made Khal Drogo look normal-sized.

"Who does he face," Dany asked, her eyes not leaving moving from her Sun-and-Stars. Mormont cleared his throat.

"I believe the name was, Reek the Weak. I may be mistaken, Khaleesi."

"Saddening, I was hoping for the Usurper." Mormont studied her face before looking back down at the arena.

"I find it hard to believe someone by the name of Reek the Weak will kill your husband. There's still a chance he may face the Usurper."

"That's why we came, he _must _face him. We made an agreement with this . . . Mighty One."

The south gate screeched open quicker than the north, this time the fighter walked with the death mongers in escort. Compared to the Khal, he was small and rather frail looking. Covering his body was light dusky-gray armor, a flayed man centered in the gold kraken hugging his chest piece. The rest of him was ordinary, dirt-brown withered hair, timid blue eyes, and twitchy hands. From his leather scabbard hung an ordinary sword, but in his hands was a gray bow made of yew. At least thirty arrows slung in pouch strapped to his back. Unlike Drogo who enjoyed the crowd, Reek the Weak simply scanned through their faces. His eyes came to rest on an extremely excited man waving vehemently. Their discussion beforehand flashed through Reek's mind.

_"Now listen closely Reek, this is very important . . . I want you to win this . . . Game, okay?" _

_ Reek stared at Ramsey, there was nothing but Ramsey. His master who was his everything and only thing. _

_ "Okay . . ." _

_ "It's a fight to the death, but don't worry, I know my Reek likes fighting . . . Right, Reek?" Reek nods briskly, his eyes wide. "Good, because by disagreeing I may have had some flaying to do . . . Now, you're going to go out there and make me proud, okay? I want you to kill your opponent, and then cut his head off! Then to install fear in your foes, it would please me if you flayed the skin from his face . . . Here, take this." Ramsey's ice cold hand pressed a flaying knife into Reek's dirty palm. "Can you do that for me, Reek?" _

_ "Y-yes, Master." _

And now here he was in the blazing sun, ready to risk his life. His eyes flashed between the cheering Ramsey and his adversary, the massive Dothraki's glare petrifying. If able to urinate properly, Reek came to the conclusion he may have wet himself under the Dothraki's menacing stare.

Abruptly a horn bellowed from the stands, heads popping from every direction to now lay eyes on the pit. Reek gulped, Drogo grinned, and the fat herald rose.

"DAY ONE OF THE TOURNAMENT, THIS MATCH IS A BATTLE TO THE DEATH! FROM THE NORTH GATE, I PRESENT THE KHAL!" The crowd cheered madly, Khal Drogo remained seated, his eyes locked on Reek. "AND FROM THE SOUTH GATE, I PRESENT REEK THE WEAK!" Ramsey was among the loudest in the small company that cheered for Reek. "WITH NEXT BLOW OF THE HORN THE BATTLE SHALL COMMENCE! ENJOY!" The herald sat back down red-faced, the effort of projecting his voice difficult in the radiant heat.

Following the plump man's words, the horn bellowed once more.

_AAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh! _

Reek's heartbeat spiked, his heart leaping into his throat. Drogo did nothing but smile, he didn't even bother to stand.

"Sick em', Reek," Ramsey shouted from above.

Reek obeyed, his twitchy hands fumbling for an arrow. Carefully he notched the arrow and drew the string back, targeting the seated Dothraki. The crowd was deathly silent, then Reek loosed the arrow, a gasp escaping his lips. Everyone watched the arrow soar straight at the Khal; it was a perfect shot, flying straight for his forehead. It wasn't until the Khaleesi screamed and the arrow was a few yards from Drogo's head that the Khal leapt to his feet and cut the arrow in two. A spray of sand flew into the air as Khal Drogo yanked his second arakh from the earth, both now twirling in his hands as he stormed towards Reek. Reek was flabbergasted, the crowd alive with noise.

Desperately this time, Reek notched another arrow, this one he loosed while back peddling. The arrow sailed low and to the left, missing the Khal's thigh. He loosed a third as he backed into the gate, this one Drogo carelessly sidestepped, the gap between the men closing. Reek scrambled along the arena's wall but the Khal cut him off, the arakhs' bite snapping against the stone wall. That was Reek's alley to run, he broke away from the wall and ran as fast his legs would allow, but Drogo was faster.

Slashing with his left, the Khal sliced open Reek's hamstring.

Crimson spewed across the sand as Reek fell to his knees, Drogo simply galloping past to bask in the crowd's excitement. Tears burned down Reek's cheeks, his mouth aghast from the pain. With trembling hands, he managed to notch another arrow and aim, his vision blurring. Khal Drogo spun around to catch the arrow with his shoulder, blood spitting from the impact. Reek laughed hysterically, his eyes alight for the first time in months as the Khal scowled and ripped the arrow free. His vision continued to fade as Khal Drogo rapidly approached, both arakhs poised to strike.

Closing his eyes, Reek felt the Dothraki's cold shadow wash over him. For the first time in what felt like years, Theon Greyjoy smiled.


End file.
